


A Whale of an Encounter

by merihobu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (all explosions off-screen), Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:24:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merihobu/pseuds/merihobu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a small town outside Alqualondë, Glorfindel and Ecthelion meet for the first time.</p>
<p>May contain some unpleasant imagery.</p>
<p>Update: now with a vaguely slashy sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The colossal figure of the whale quivered ominously with each wave that washed ashore, making Laurefindil feel dwarfed in a way not even Tirion’s most imposing towers did. He secured his scarf more tightly over his nose to block out the worst of the smell, and made his way down the beach.

“Oi! Goldilocks! Get away from there!”

Upon hearing the detested epithet, Laurefindil spun around to see someone sprinting down the slope. As the figure drew nearer and eventually skidded to a halt before him, it revealed itself to be a young man about his age. The dark plait that fell over his shoulder held a hint of silver, and blue-grey eyes lingered on Laurefindil's unbound hair and embroidered cloak that was, perhaps, just a smidgen too ornate for travelling. Despite the somewhat derisive expression flickering across the youth’s face, Laurefindil could not help noticing that his features were exceedingly fair.

His indignation at the less-than-polite greeting had hardly subsided when the stranger spoke again.

Laurefindil blinked as his flustered mind struggled to translate the Telerin.

The stranger rolled his eyes and repeated himself, this time in Quenya. “Can’t you see how bloated that thing is?”

_What makes him think I speak Telerin?_ Laurefindil felt his irritation get the better of him as he replied, perhaps more curtly than necessary, “Indeed I can—that is what captured my attention, and made me desire a closer look at the leviathan.”

The stranger made a half-hearted effort to suppress a smirk, and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. “You’ll be desiring something completely different should that… _leviathan_ blow up in your face.”

_What kind of fool does he take me for?_ “Save your ludicrous tales for those still young enough to believe them.” He turned and began to walk away.

Footsteps followed in his wake, and Laurefindil turned around despite himself. “No, really!” the stranger said, his face now flushed with indignation. “I’ve seen it happen with my own damn eyes. Father’s a whaler, see, and so are my grandparents; I’ve been on some expeditions myself, and heard my fair share of stories. Ever fill a bladder with too much water?” He jabbed a finger towards the whale. “Same principle here, except with air, and this one has been rotting here for a long time, judging by its size. It’s always a gamble to cut into them—sometimes there’s just this really anticlimactic hissing, and other times… let’s just say you wouldn't want to be the one doing the cutting.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Not in that fancy cloak, at least.”

His mocking voice rang in Laurefindil’s ears. He bit back a retort, and instead tried to picture entrails erupting, sausage-like, out of the creature. No, it was a scene quite beyond the scope of his imagination. Indeed, to get a truly accurate vision, he would have to witness it firsthand. Fuelled by the stranger’s taunt, he tugged his hunting knife from his boot and strode towards the carcass.

“Wait.” The stranger caught up with him and grabbed his elbow, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “That gleam in your eyes—I don’t like it. Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I,” Laurefindil said, in the haughtiest tone he could muster, “am about to conduct an empirical investigation on the inner composition of the leviathan.”

“Using _that_?!” The stranger’s head turned from the knife to the whale and back to the knife again. For a moment, he seemed to be overcome by incredulity. Then he threw his head back and howled with laughter.

Laurefindil glared at the stranger until he managed to compose himself, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“My good Vanya—"

“Half-Vanya.”

“Is that so?” Curious eyes peered up at him. “Judging from your behaviour so far, I’m guessing the other half isn’t Telerin.”

“No, my father is one of the Noldor.”

“So’s my mother—the people of Tirion have her to thank for their plumbing. And my father to thank for their ivory, if they happen to be rich.” Suddenly, the stranger smiled, his friendliest gesture so far, and Laurefindil could not help smiling back. “My name’s Ehtelion.”

_So that explains the Quenya!_ Laurefindil took Ehtelion’s proffered hand. “I am Laurefindil.”

“Ha! Wasn’t that far off, after all.”

Laurefindil decided to ignore that comment. “I thought this was a whaling town—what’s a great beast like that doing wasting away here?"

Ehtelion shrugged. “We discovered it far too late; it won’t be of use for some time yet. No one lives in this region—I came down to get a few days’ respite from my parents’ incessant nagging.”

So they did have something else in common, after all. And perhaps the similarities did not end there…

“Say,” said Laurefindil with an air of casual nonchalance, “Just what exactly _are_ the odds of that thing exploding?"

Ehtelion eyed the carcass and blew out a long, slow breath. “To be honest? Not that high; left alone, it'll probably just deflate like a sad, old balloon. Although…” He turned towards Laurefindil, and this time his grin was wicked. “What _you_ lack in proper equipment, _I_ happen to have with me. What say you we carry out—how did you put it—an empirical investigation on the leviathan's inner composition?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- A whale-sized thank you to tehta for improving this story with her beta and helpful suggestions!
> 
> \- I hope it is clear in this story, but if not (and please let me know in that case): “Goldilocks” is supposed to correspond to a ruder Telerin version of “Laurefindil”, similar enough to Quenya for Glorfindel to understand Ecthelion’s initial, hmm, greeting.
> 
> \- Also, Laurefindil and Ehtelion are just one variation of Glorfindel’s and Ecthelion’s Quenya names. The former is from Parma Eldalamberon 17, and the latter was gacked from tehta’s [_Alqualonde Days_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/705754/chapters/1302888), because I avoid deriving names myself if I can help it.
> 
> \- I am not sure just how mutually intelligible Quenya and Telerin actually are. Let us pretend here that the differences are enough to make understanding difficult when flustered, such as when confronted by pretty, belligerent youngsters.
> 
> \- While we are at it, we will also pretend that balloons (made from intestines, not rubber) existed back then. Balloon sculpting does sound like something the Noldor might be into...
> 
> \- I should also add that my knowledge of postmortem whale behaviour is limited to various videos and news articles, so please let me know if something seems off.
> 
> \- Thank you for reading, feedback is welcome, and I hope this story did not gross you out too much!


	2. Chapter 2

“Well,” said Laurefindil, as he blinked yet again, “that certainly gives ‘there she blows’ a whole new meaning.”

Ehtelion snorted. “For you, perhaps; that joke has been around since the first whale exploded in my great-grandparents’ time. Besides, we got lucky. If you think the smell’s bad now, consider my cousin, who ended up with a faceful of this stuff.”

Laurefindil grimaced, both in disgust and sympathy.

“Although,” continued Ehtelion thoughtfully, “at that time, it probably hurt more than anything, given the force of the blow. I hope you now understand my reaction when you pulled out your blade.”

“Oh, I definitely see the need for the longer handles now. Although, about your cousin…” Laurefindil shot Ehtelion a sly glance. “Did the incident, by any chance, reduce him to a blubbering mess?”

Ehtelion groaned. “Oh, _please_."

“I’ll have you know this much wordplay from me is quite a fluke.”

“Just stop already. And for your information, my cousin is a she. Who also happens to be the youngest captain in centuries, a feat my father will not shut up about.” Ehtelion poked morosely at the now-deflated flank with his knife. “She’s almost twice my age! I really don’t know what he’s trying to achieve by comparing us all the time, and pointing out my weaknesses in detail, and telling me I’ll amount to nothing with my attitude…” His stabbing intensified with each word.

“Now, now.” Despite the Ehtelion’s obvious distress, Laurefindil could not resist one last pun. “I am sure he is just spouting nonsense.”

Ehtelion glared at him. “I am _this_ close to spearing you with a harpoon, Goldilocks.”

Laurefindil bristled at the name. “Please do not call me that.”

They stood glowering at each other for a moment, until Ehtelion averted his eyes and turned away. “Sorry. Anyway, we should probably clean up.”

“I am sorry about your shirt.”

“Don’t be—it’s seen worse. And you’ve hardly escaped the onslaught of… debris, yourself. Here, some of it got into your hair. I _told_ you to tie it back.”

Laurefindil knew he should be more distraught—his hair, after all, was in a mess—but his horror was temporarily overridden by a curious, novel sensation as Ehtelion leaned forward to pluck the stray chunk of viscera out. He stood very still as Ehtelion’s fingers slid through his hair until the piece finally came free. For the briefest of seconds, something unrecognisable seemed to flicker in Ehtelion’s eyes; but then he blinked, flicked the offending scrap away, and said, in a voice of neutral calm, “Well, aren’t you glad you took off your cloak?”

Laurefindil looked down at the stain on his shirt. “Very, although I am starting to think I should have chosen something more practical in the first place.”

They gathered their belongings and made their way in silence up the beach, towards the stream that wound its way through the nearby woods. Laurefindil could not help sneaking the occasional look at the semi-stranger who, not quite an hour ago, had seemed more a candidate for an enemy than a friend. Now he was more an enigma than anything, and a rather comely one at that.

He did not expect their eyes to meet when he next glanced over; nor did he expect them both to flush and quickly turn away. Before Laurefindil could think of something to say to dissipate the awkwardness, Ehtelion came to an abrupt stop beside a tree and retrieved several bundles from its branches. He dropped the first two at his feet, before laying the third down more gently and turning to Laurefindil, his face again a mask of neutrality.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that we could take turns at bathing.”

Was that a tiny twinge of disappointment Laurefindil felt? “Good idea. You can go first, if you want—that shirt cannot be comfortable in its current state.”

Ehtelion waved a dismissive hand. “Like I said, I’ve been covered in worse; a few more minutes in this would hardly make a difference. Go ahead, I know you want to wash that hair. You come off as a bit of a vainpot.”

The insult barely registered on Laurefindil as he removed his clothes and waded out into the stream, feeling unusually and inexplicably self-conscious. He busied himself with rinsing the remnants of gore out of his hair, trying not to think about what Ehtelion might be doing behind his back.

When he finally turned around again, Ehtelion was gone. Feeling somewhat relieved, Laurefindil set about making himself presentable again. He was just lacing up his tunic when Ehtelion reappeared, arms laden with branches and twigs.

“Good timing,” he said, dropping his burden and freeing his hair from its plait. “You can start the fire while I bathe—you do know how to start one, don’t you?”

“Oh, please!” scoffed Laurefindil, feeling more amused than offended this time. “You may find my fashion choices frivolous, but I’ve been camping out with my family since I was a child.”

“I wish my parents still did that with me,” said Ehtelion wistfully. “They seem to think that the older I get, the less I desire their company. Now it’s all just endless drills and chores when I’m with them.” He turned and made his way down to the water, his dark hair falling halfway down his back, the silver in it accentuated by its unbound state.

Laurefindil turned his back firmly on the scene and focused on making a campfire worthy of proving his earlier point. He could hear splashes behind him as Ehtelion washed first his clothes and then himself; eventually they gave way to footsteps as he returned, dressed in clean clothes and squeezing water out of his hair.

“Nice fire,” he said as he flung his wet clothes carelessly over a branch. “Fancy some fish?”

“Normally, yes, but after today’s incidents… I cannot say I have quite regained my appetite for anything remotely fishy.”

“I wonder how long you’d last on a whaling ship.” Ehtelion grinned as he leaned his spear back against the tree and reached for one of his bundles instead. “As it is, your dietary restrictions leave us with… biscuits and cheese.”

They ate in silence, watching the afternoon sun dance over the water. Every now and then, the song of the stream was interrupted by a splash as a fish leapt out of the water and back in again. After the third such incident, Ehtelion spoke.

“You know,” he said, “It’s a pity the first whale you saw was in such a… rotten condition. I hope you get to see an actual, live one in all its majesty someday, perhaps slapping its great tail against the water, or leaping clean out of it like that fish just did.”

“Truly?” asked Laurefindil, torn between incredulity and awe. “Can such an immense creature lift itself out of the sea?”

Ehtelion laughed. “Most certainly, and with enough frequency to warrant a name! We call it breaching. Don’t think them clumsy just because of their size. Come whale-watching with us sometimes, and you’ll be surprised at how graceful they can be. Not just in movement, either: you haven’t heard music till you’ve heard a whale sing.”

“ _Sing_?”

“Yes, sing.”

Laurefindil paused to digest this mind-blowing information. “What is their song like?”

“It varies, but most of it is… keen. Unearthly. Evocative of strange longings.”

“Can you imitate it?”

“No, I can’t. But I can play you something inspired by it.” Ehtelion rummaged around in his pack and eventually produced a flute. Raising it to his lips, he closed his eyes and began to play.

Laurefindil felt a shiver run down his spine as the haunting melody washed over them. Ehtelion played with the practised ease of an accomplished musician, and yet also with the joyful unaffectedness of one who truly delighted in his craft. As Laurefindil tore his gaze away from Ehtelion and let the music carry him out to sea, one thought lingered in his mind: _I could listen to him all day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Again, many thanks to tehta for looking through this!
> 
> \- I apologise for the terrible puns.
> 
> \- As to whether whales could be heard before the advent of fancy electronic equipment, I came across this quote attributed to Leonardo da Vinci in 1490:
>
>> If you cause your ship to stop and place the head of a long tube in the water and place the outer extremity to your ear, you will hear ships at a great distance from you.
> 
>   
> So… maybe?
> 
> \- Please let me know if you find any errors, inconsistencies, implausibilities, etc.
> 
> \- Once again, thank you for reading!


End file.
